


Valentine

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And some unestablished as well, Established Relationship, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Valentine's Day Fluff, some mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: Sam gets a Valentine, Dean jokes, and Castiel reveals the true story of the saint.Happy Valentine's Day!





	

The bunker door slammed shut with a loud, irritated squeak. Dean looked up, watching Sam’s boots counting the steps of the staircase with an increasing speed.

“What’s up?” he asked not waiting for Sam to come closer.

Sam crossed the room in a hurried pace and took something from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Look what I found.”

He was still breathing heavily, and before looking at the object Sam was handing him, Dean kept staring at him for a good moment. Sam looked unusually nervous, his gaze down, hair rattled, and cheekbones pinkish as of a strong physical effort or, much more likely, as if he was blushing. The only time Dean could recall seeing his brother so messed up, had been after that enchanted wedding with Becky. But now Sam’s ring finger was clearly empty, and there was no sign of the love potion he had been drugged with. It was something different.

“Are you all right, Sam?” Castiel asked. He was staring at Sam too, frowning worriedly.

“Yeah... Yeah, I’m fine, Cas.” Sam waved awkwardly and forced out a smile, “I’m just... confused a little bit. Dean, will you have a look?”

Finally, Dean glanced down. Sam was holding a little folded postcard— thick pink paper, decorated with tiny glittering hearts. There was no note inside, nothing whatsoever to indicate who the sender was, just ridiculous hearts all around.

Dean whistled. “Whoa, you have a secret admirer, Sammy,” he said. “Well, you have grown!”

Sam winced and rubbed his forehead. “Dean...”

“What? It’s cool, really, I can’t see what’s the problem... Who sent it?”

“It was on the windshield,” Sam said. “I was away for just a few minutes, stopped at a gas station to grab your burritos, and when I came back this thing was already there.” He said ‘this thing’ with an effort, as if it hurt him to mention the actual postcard. “It was squeezed under the wiper, so that I could not miss it. I made a quick search, but found no one.”

“Means you don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded sadly. “Even the dust layer on the glass was still there, and I can’t imagine how this was possible.”

“Dust? You let the Baby get dusty!?”

“Not that dusty, Dean,” Sam replied reassuringly. “I’ll wash it later. But what about the card?”

“And what about the card? Relax, Sam, it’s a Valentine’s day, after all, chicks love that stuff.”

“There were no chicks a mile around! Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”

Dean shrugged. “Nope.”

Sam snorted in disagreement, but said nothing.

“Aren’t these cards a traditional attribute of this holiday?” Castiel asked him.

“They are, but normally it’s people you know who send them, not strangers.”

“Maybe it wasn’t even for you,” Dean said, hoping he didn’t sound jealous. “Maybe she just liked the car.”

“Of course,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “How could I miss that.” For a moment, he was silent, then he went on, “But, Dean, seriously, no one we know could’ve left it.”

“So what? That’s the whole point of this day. To get that kinda stuff from anyone. Surprise, you know?” Dean giggled and looked at Castiel who still listened to them with a puzzled frown. “Am I right, Cas? He was a good guy, that Valentine, wasn’t he? Back from the days when the saints were still marching in.”

“Saint Valentine had never been marching anywhere,” Castiel said in a low voice.

Sam and Dean exchanged a quick glance and looked at him. It occurred to both of them suddenly, that Castiel wasn’t just answering. He could had actually met the Saint. Like, literally had met him somewhere in Heaven, and now he was just speaking the facts.

Sam took a chair and sat next to Castiel. The postcard with hearts, now completely forgotten, was thrown onto the map table, and by a funny romantic coincidence covered the whole territory of France.

“Wait, Cas. Do you... Did you know him?”

“Of course,” Castiel nodded. “Although not too closely.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Even after numerous archangels and cupids, after Lucifer, after God himself, it felt somehow hard to believe that Castiel had been interacting with the saints as well. The saints you mention occasionally, sometimes barely remembering their story, were absolutely real to the angel a few thousand years old. Fascinating.

“Fascinating,” Dean repeated aloud, too stunned to say something else. “And?”

Castiel glanced up. “What do you want to know, Dean?”

Sam cleared his throat. “I guess, Dean is curious if the lore about him is true. The one that says Saint Valentine was executed for helping a young couple to marry.”

“It’s not the lore, Sam,” Castiel said with a hint of irritation. “It’s Wikipedia.”

“But...” Sam opened his laptop and rapidly typed a few words into a search window. “Well, it’s not confirmed, and there is more than one story on that here but... Let me check, just to make sure...”

He went on scrolling the page. Dean stood up and bent over his shoulder to look at the screen too. The page outlined the common legends from early Roman era, when the marriages of the warriors were forbidden as distracting them of service. A noble man called Valentine felt compassionate to some legionnaire being deeply in love and helped him to marry the girl despite the ban. The truth came out somehow, and the poor guy was decapitated— without any actual chance to survive, given the dark times he happened to live in— shortly after. In another version of the story before his death, Valentine had cured a blind girl by giving her a holy message.

While Sam kept reading the lore, Dean noticed an image accompanying the text— the painting of the Saint, looking like some early Renaissance. An elderly bearded man was standing on a rocky plain, his face slightly down, right hand holding a short shining sword. Over his head there were two birds flying with their small heads deliberately turned to each other.

“Why the birds, Cas?” Dean asked with a sudden interest. “The guy covered the whole fauna, huh?”

“No. It’s from Chaucer.”

“Chaucer?” Sam said. “Like, Jeffrey Chaucer, the poet?”

“Yes. He...” Cas touched quickly the back of his neck, and Dean immediately recognized this gesture. “He used that metaphor in one of his longer poems.”

“‘The Bird Parliament’,” Sam read from the screen. “There's a quote from it saying that on Saint Valentine's Day every bird chooses his mate. Fourteenth century.”

“Exactly, Sam.”

Dean looked at the birds with fluffy black wings and the silver sword again. Wings. And a blade. And a lonely sad man.

“That’s a hell of a coincidence, Cas,” he said slowly. “You sure you didn't have a finger in the pie?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow and looked away. “Well, actually it wasn’t myself,” he said. “I asked a muse.”

He looked so funny, with all that innocence and confusion in his every wrinkle, that Dean laughed.

“Attaboy, Cas,” he mumbled through his laughter, “Attaboy!”

Sam chuckled. “So what's happened?” he asked. “I mean, in real?”

“It's a long story.”

“We aren't in a hurry,” Dean said. “Are we, Sam? No, sure we aren't. C'mon, Cas, bring on the truth. The court is listening.”

Castiel sighed, as though reluctant to speak. There was still a trace of confusion in his expression, but all innocence was now gone.

“Well,” he said at last, “the truth is not as romantic as you probably think. Valentine lived in ancient Rome. He wasn't a noble man, in fact, he was very poor, hardly making his living as a recruited soldier. He happened to fall in love with a rich merchant's daughter. Although he'd never had a chance to marry her, he still wanted to tell her about his feelings. The girl was young and pretty, and her father never let her out alone, so Valentine decided to write her a letter. But he was illiterate, he didn't know any letters or how to compose words. He tore a piece of his tunic, from the chest, right where his heart was, and sent it to the girl with a pigeon messenger. The cloth was wrapped around the pigeon's leg, and as it was a relatively long flight, the pigeon landed in some garden midway. Its feet touched the pollen of flowers, and Valentine's cloth got some of it too. Accidentally, the color of the pollen was light red, and when the girl got her message, she guessed what it meant. Unfortunately, her father learned the story too. He got furious, and to protect his daughter from this inappropriate affair, he sent his servants to kill Valentine. The poor man never even found out the girl had received his message. He died with her name on his lips.” Castiel paused briefly and then added, “You see, it's not romantic, as I've told you.”

“It is,” Sam said. “In fact, it is, Cas.”

“And it's damn sad,” Dean pointed out. “This merchant was a dick.”

“He wanted to protect his daughter, and there weren’t many options for him at these times.” Castiel breathed out a sigh. “But you are right, Dean. Anyway, with this story being so ordinary, Valentine would not have been canonized, so the lore was altered. Later, Chaucer was inspired to make a reference of Valentine’s story in his poem.”

Dean squinted meaningfully. “Inspired?”

“Yes,” Castiel said in a steady voice. “Personally, I think it was just fair to memorize that poor man in honor of all those who suffered for their sympathies.” He never added anything else, but he didn’t really need to. There was no one around to disagree. Quite happy with the silence, Castiel was studying the postcard on the table, as if this small piece of colored carton could serve as a solid proof to his last words. Then suddenly he said, “Sam, was is like that in the beginning?”

Sam followed his gaze and froze still. The hearts on the postcard changed their position— not scattered randomly anymore, now they were forming a word. A name, rather. And it clearly read, ‘Samuel’.

“What the…” Sam started to speak and cut off.

Dean took the card from the table. “The number of people calling you Samuel is about one,” he said with a shake of his head. “And we both know who this one is.”

“Rowena,” Sam muttered. “It’s gotta be Rowena, yeah… That’s why there was no trace of her near the car!”

“I believe that’s true,” Castiel said, looking at Sam with concern. “She could have left the card without literally touching any part of the car.”

Dean tapped Sam on the shoulder and grinned, “Congratulations, man! Well, honestly, she’s a bit older than you, like maybe four hundred years or something, but never mind. At least it’s not her son.”

“This is really fortunate, Sam,” Castiel added. He obviously meant it to sound helpful, but with Sam, it worked just the opposite way. He rushed up from his seat, visibly angry, wheezing and frowning. The idea of having Rowena as his admirer certainly didn’t please Sam at all, and he wasn’t in the mood to hear any jokes about it.

“Screw you!” he swore. “Both of you!”

Sam turned abruptly and headed out of the room. He would calm down soon enough, but Dean knew better not to follow him right now.

When Sam’s steps faded away, Castiel looked back at Dean. His head was slightly tilted aside, his expression was thoughtful and serious— this very classic type of expression that Dean loved so much.

“You don’t need a similar card from me, Dean, do you?” Castiel asked.

“No,” Dean said, smiling. “I think, I don’t.”


End file.
